


The Pathway to Salvation

by mangoananas_1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 03:02:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12497172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangoananas_1/pseuds/mangoananas_1
Summary: One can never get over the death of his other half, not really. Especially when that half was.. quite literally just that. But one thing is for sure: one must find a way to carry on.Or the one where George runs away to find hope from the mountains of the north





	The Pathway to Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> This angsty piece is a crappy birthday present for my LOVELY PAL LAU ( https://smallepics.tumblr.com/ )

He had run away.

The loss becoming too much for him to bear. See, he was fragile; that much he'd learnt now, during these past few months. More than half of his strength had rested on the shoulders of someone else, and now those shoulders couldn't hold anything anymore for they were buried under the cold hard ground. Now his sentences were left unfinished, his thoughts not shared. No one looked him in the eyes anymore. No one looked at his face anymore. Not that he did, either - all the shiny objects in ~~their~~ his flat had been covered. But his presence haunted those rooms still.

And so he had run away.

Not to Italy, that's where _he_ had always wanted to go, and he did not want to go anywhere that reminded him of _him_. He was a coward, sure, leaving his family to grieve without him, but he needed to get away. And besides, _he_ had always been the true Gryffindor out of the two of them. The brave one, the strong one. The one to cheer everyone up even if _he_ was hurting too. And now nothing was left, and no one in the Burrow knew how to cheer up without the jokes, the pranks, _the laughter._ (He hadn't laughed in months. Truth be told he wasn't sure if he knew how to, not anymore.)

 

The solitary mountains held a sort of calming presence. It was like something understood the emptiness gnawing his insides no matter where he went or how much whiskey he drank. The echoing void that's left after something vital has been ripped out of your body; the void that slowly sucks in all the little pieces that have been spared until nothing is left and everything collapses. Nowadays his mind reminded him more of an unstable house of cards that was bound to come crashing down any minute now than of an actual, functioning brain. And he just watched it all like an outsider, with the mild interest of a random passerby; with the sort of clinical fascination that is usually found in scientists watching their lab rats dying after some experiment or another, increasing the variables just a little bit more, just to see what would it take for the damn thing to die already.

That's what he was - an onlooker. Watching himself spiral deeper and deeper into complete destruction without doing anything. Without really _wanting_ to do anything. (To be honest he had not _wanted_ to do anything for nearly four months now. Except to maybe die but then again not nearly enough to actively do something to reach that goal either.)

 

And still, looking out of the window and observing the morning fog enveloping the mountains seemed to have a clearing effect on him. It seemed as if standing on the balcony, staring at _nothing_ , lifted the fog that had been gathering inside his mind. It was a small but noticeable difference; one or two clear thoughts per day was a pleasant change to the painful silence that had been following his steps for months. Sometimes, if it was a good day, he was even able to get some sleep after he went back into the small cottage that he had rented for an "undefined period of time". And if he got some sleep and was lucky enough, he might have another clear thought for the day. And that would make it easier for him to sleep again.

It was a cycle, really.

But somewhere, deep inside his brain, he had decided it was a good cycle. Different to the one he was following before.

One morning, he had even looked into the mirror. (Granted, he had ended up chopping all of his hair off and might have considered stabbing himself with the scissors, but in the end he had not and that was besides the point anyway.) Now, he figured he might dye his hair once it grew back. Maybe that would make seeing his reflection easier, until, one day, he would be able to look at it without wanting to throw up. Or maybe he would be dead before that day, who knew. Either one seemed like a good option.

 

(Although, he realized, he was slowly starting to prefer the former.)


End file.
